REXANNA
i was born with a knife in one hand
She took the blanket with a soft smile toward him, not really needing it but appreciating the gesture regardless. And when he stands, and helps her up, she leans on him the best she can to get her legs to move. It takes a small amount of time, with her hissing with the movement (not because of pain, but because of frustration) they finally make it to the bathroom. He sits her down on the edge of the bath while he fills it up, and she watches him lovingly before he replies to her.
A soft laugh leaves her and she gives him a fanged smile, and while she wants to shrug her shoulders, they aren’t exactly working as intended. “I would like you to paint the pumpkin battle, if you’re up for a challenge of another sort.” She adds, seriousness lining underneath her humor. “I’ll even draw it up all crudely so you have an idea.” She jests before sighing softly and lifting a leg with her good hand to place in the water, watching as it mixed with the black fluid of the blight, and her own inner clear fluid.
She shoots a glance to him then with a raised eyebrow. “Which was the most harrowing?” She asks, giving him a bright smile despite how she looks, and she discards the blanket for the time being as she focuses on putting her other leg into the bathwater, waiting for his tale – for his dramatics and theatrics, waiting for the way his hands move about the air as though he’s drawing the story before her eyes.
It’s the little things like that, that make her realize just how much she loves him.
A soft laugh leaves her and she gives him a fanged smile, and while she wants to shrug her shoulders, they aren’t exactly working as intended. “I would like you to paint the pumpkin battle, if you’re up for a challenge of another sort.” She adds, seriousness lining underneath her humor. “I’ll even draw it up all crudely so you have an idea.” She jests before sighing softly and lifting a leg with her good hand to place in the water, watching as it mixed with the black fluid of the blight, and her own inner clear fluid.
She shoots a glance to him then with a raised eyebrow. “Which was the most harrowing?” She asks, giving him a bright smile despite how she looks, and she discards the blanket for the time being as she focuses on putting her other leg into the bathwater, waiting for his tale – for his dramatics and theatrics, waiting for the way his hands move about the air as though he’s drawing the story before her eyes.
It’s the little things like that, that make her realize just how much she loves him.
and a wound in the other
